a Sunday between heatwaves

Apparently, based on some meta review, eight in ten of these unfortunate creatures who have to hop on one leg and use walking aids for an extended period develop bursitis in at least one shoulder joint once they start walking unaided again. Something about the cavity below the joint and leaning to one side for weeks and so on. Count me as one of the eight in ten. There is of course a light at the end of the tunnel and physiotherapy. I am crossing bridges on a daily basis.

We are living between two heatwaves. The garden is dry, we water a bit here and there, mostly drip feeding the vegetable beds and filling up trays for the birds and hedgehogs and insects. Early morning is the best time, with a semblance of dew in the air. I walk down to the berries and pick a bowl for breakfast. The radio in the kitchen reports on the theatre of cruelty called world politics, government is understood as the exercise of rule that secures its power through brutality and everywhere the vulnerable are punished for their vulnerability. My brother furiously and disbelievingly shares a lead article in the most conservative of Sunday papers that suggests the fires in France and Spain may have been caused by leftwing agitators who want to push their climate change agenda. Where to begin?

In their silent, unspoken way, the protection my parents were able to offer me was that they had survived Hitler and the Second World War. That they had understood what had happened, even if it meant suffering and lifelong guilt. And yes, they forced on to my generation the traumas of the perpetrators, the victims and the bystanders. But at the same time, they were able to explain to me that the democracy I was born into would prevent it from happening again. All through my childhood, my teenage years and ever since despite all the distance I put between us, I have lived with their fears and their traumas and I felt sorry for them and tried to understand their harshness, their nightmares, their weird habits, their silences. It's all because of the past, I used to think.

But today, their fears are becoming real. I am witnessing the uprising of political fantasies of violence, racism to an extent that even I feel threatened, me, a (once) blond, blue-eyed middle class, educated, independent woman. The magic words of my parents, grown out of their multiple traumas, and their belief that democracy works and would protect us, can no longer keep me safe.

And here I am, watching the dragon flies hovering over the bronze fennel, and all I can offer to this world is to try and summon grace, to step lightly, hold on to nothing and remain open.

tigridia, hedgehogs and bats

 

tigrida season, a different colour combination every morning

It is now four months since I fractured the ankle. There is progress, so much progress and I have to remind myself of that every day. There also is a man in the house who mutters the word patience under his breath every time I whine and complain and generally feel sorry for myself. And there is an orthopedic surgeon who keeps on refering to my serious injury at every appointment. 

 

And there is the e-bike. While walking for longer stretches is still a challenge, cycling is freedom. But then there's also getting old and aching joints and morning stiffness and not tolerating the hot weather the way I used to. 

 

A long time ago, when we were young(er) and foolish, we had wild plans for retirement. They seem wild now, at the time, there were just logical next chapters to our life. They involved long distance cycling, weeks and weeks of it, living in different cities for months at a time, exploring and learning while renting out the house back home. We made a list of mountains to climb, lakes and waterfalls to swim in, nice hotels to rest in afterwards.

 

Yesterday, we sat outside on the patio after dark, a slight breeze lifted the day's heat and the bats were circling above us. The hedgehogs came shuffling down the lawn stretching their legs after their restful day hiding below the hedge. Earlier we had watched a flock of jays, young and old, refreshing themselves in the bird bath, messing about like a gang of teenagers at the public pool.

It's good here, we agreed. We like it. Let's just sit and watch. 

We opened all the windows to let the cool night air in and watched Hamnet and we cried and missed our child so very much. In the end, we had a laugh having just watched a film about the greatest writer in the English language impersonated by Paul Mescal, an Irish actor from County Kildare, and his wife Agnes, impersonated by Jessie Buckley, an Irish actor from County Kerry - both fluent as Gaeilge speakers at home.

And a cheerful image, the solar panel roof of the railway station in Rotterdam, providing all of the energy required for the service section and all platforms etc. Photo by Stefan Rahmstorf, much revered climate scientist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know that healing from this ... injury will become a blip on my life radar. I don’t think the accident contains meaning. I don’t think I’m meant to learn something from it. It came without warning, explanation, or cause (that I can remember). But I can sense an invitation arising from it anyway.

Heidi Lasher